Kind of like Italy

When you go to bed all clean, with fresh sheets and pajamas, 

and you wake up with a cool breeze on your skin 

and green, green, green-just-a-hint-of-blue-sky-back-there outside your window, the leaves dancing in the breeze so that your nearsightedness makes it look like a Monet painting in motion, 

and you hear the birds, especially the ones that have made a nest over your air conditioner,

and you can hear cars and lawn mowers but nothing that sounds like hurry,

it's hard to believe that any of your problems are really problems next to this quiet joy

so you leave them 

you take another day off to putter around and play the piano and read and write and sit with friends

you dedicate the day to God not in its bustle of activity but in its restfulness.

Anyway, I do.